Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [75]
“What’s her name?”
“Janice Krause. She lives in El Dorado Hills.”
“Maybe she remembers something. Maybe she still has it.”
“Claire, be careful. Oliver believed that your father was framed by someone who wanted to kill Chase Taverton. The killer must have learned about Taverton’s affair, and the best person to frame is the husband. But if Taverton hadn’t been having an affair, he would have faked an accident or had Taverton killed in a manner that would divert attention from the true motive.
“And that is what Oliver never found out, at least not to my knowledge. The motive of the killer. Believing that Taverton was the target and knowing why are completely different.”
Claire absorbed the information. “Did he mention Frank Lowe to you?”
Bill started. “Yes. He called me and asked if I could look into a petty thief named Frank Lowe for him. He never told me why.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. I asked Dave to pull his records. Didn’t tell him why—I don’t want Dave to get in trouble because I have this curious streak. It seemed like a dead end—Lowe was killed in a fire at the bar he lived above.”
“Did you tell Oliver that?”
“I called him when I had the information, and said I didn’t know what good it would do because Lowe was dead.”
“Did you know he died the night after Taverton and my mom were killed?”
“That’s what Oliver had said. And he said one other interesting thing. He thought Lowe was alive.”
“Did you give him the files?”
“No. Never had the chance. He was going to come by, never did. I left a couple messages, but never heard back from him.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police?”
Bill frowned, shook his head. “And say what? I have no evidence of anything. And I didn’t know he was missing until this morning when Dave told me he was dead.” He seemed to age in front of her.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Believe me, Claire, I wish I had pushed Oliver harder. I wish I had told him to be more careful. But the truth is, I was hopeful that he was going to find something to help Tom, and I let him go at it. He was a law student. I honestly didn’t think he would get hurt digging through archives and court cases.”
“When was he supposed to meet you to pick up the files?”
Bill sighed and stood. He walked over to a small desk near the back door and flipped his calendar back to January.
“Monday, January 21. He wanted to come by first thing in the morning, and I said anytime after six. I get up as if I’m still working the day shift.”
“He went missing that Sunday night.”
Bill blanched. “Claire—”
“I need to go.”
“Claire, be careful. Talk to Dave.”
“I can’t.”
Suddenly Bill straightened. “You’re talking to Tom.”
“Don’t.”
“Claire, you need to—”
“Don’t tell me to go to the police. I can’t do that. Maybe two days ago I could have—two days ago I would have—but everything my father told me you just confirmed. Something is going on here, and I need to figure it out. But I can’t tell Dave. I love him, but he’s a cop. He’ll risk everything to help me, and lose everything as well.”
“Because he loves you, Claire. You’re the little sister Maggie and I could never give him.”
“I need to do this.”
He nodded. “I understand. But Claire, watch your back. And don’t be afraid to call for help.”
“Do you have the files on Frank Lowe?”
“I’ll get them.” He left, then returned moments later and handed her a thick manila envelope.
“Thanks.”
“You know you can always call Dave or me. We’ll be there in a heartbeat.”
“I know.” She hugged him. “But you see why I can’t call the authorities now.”
“No—” He stopped. “They want Tom in custody.”
“And they don’t care about the theory of a dead law student. At least not now. And the execution date is six weeks away. Dad has no more appeals.” Tears coated her eyes and she blinked them back. “He’s innocent, Bill.” Her voice cracked. For the first time, deep down, Claire knew that her dad was innocent. “I don’t need proof to know it. But I need proof to get him out from under the needle.”
She walked to the door. Bill followed her and said, “Remember, you’re following in Oliver’s footsteps.